


Banana Bread

by rhythmicroman



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Human, Art, Based on a Cavetown Song, Body Dysphoria, Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV) References, Chatting & Messaging, Coming Out, Connor Deserves Happiness, Dysphoria, Everyone Is Gay, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gender Dysphoria, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Human Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Internalised Transphobia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Religious Imagery, Misgendering, POV Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Present Tense, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Indulgent, Songfic, Trans Character, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Trans Male Character, Trans/Cis Relationships, Transphobia, art nerds fall in love: the fic, author is trans & gay, connor is trans & gay, connor isn't a fan of being touched, connor was accidentally outed, connor's deadname is amanda lol, hank is cis & bi, i dont have a boyfriend and that makes me sad so im giving connor a boyfriend real quick lol, it's briefly mentioned in the 1st chapter jsyk, it's not very frequent but it will happen, kinda??, markus is cis & gay, markus is whipped, shy markus, slow burn who?? never met her, sometimes, vent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 04:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhythmicroman/pseuds/rhythmicroman
Summary: There is a serpent in the garden.It isn't a real garden, Connor knows; it's something he's made up, drawn in varying mediums on scraps of half-used paper. Dull crayon scrawls from when he was too young to hold a pen, precise linework in thousands of saturated colours from when he finally grew up.In the middle of it all, the corner of the very first page, is her name - "Amanda", scribbled out in pens that never seemed to quite cover it - and beneath it is a serpent.





	Banana Bread

**Author's Note:**

> now I know what you're thinking: "gdi roman, every other fic is you projecting onto another person!! we get it, you're trans!!"  
> well, I've had a deal of Internalised Transphobia(tm) recently, and connor is real fun to vent with, so here u go anyway lol  
> a lot of this is based on my own experience/emotions but, obviously, the events are changed to fit the characters~
> 
> title is from the song "banana bread" by cavetown

There is a serpent in the garden. 

It isn't a real garden, Connor knows; it's something he's made up, drawn in varying mediums on scraps of half-used paper. Dull crayon scrawls from when he was too young to hold a pen, precise linework in thousands of saturated colours from when he finally grew up.

In the middle of it all, the corner of the very first page, is her name - "Amanda", scribbled out in pens that never seemed to quite cover it - and beneath it is a serpent.

He's lied before, and said he doesn't know what it means. Hank makes an effort to ask him, quietly, what these things mean, because Hank understands; he knows what it's like to scream in words only you understand, draw a past only you remember, drink away each worry with sickly water only you would dare to sip. And he lies, every time Hank asks, and says he doesn't know, because he really wishes he didn't.

The serpent was a bad night, or maybe a bad week, or month, or year - 2037 fading into the distance, he'd scrawled it in fading ballpoint pen, beady red eyes and snapping jaws, rushed and malformed in comparison to its picture-perfect surroundings. He'd cried and whined and begged into the paper, and the serpent had emerged, flicking its tail at his tears, writhing and relishing in his pain.

And now, as 2038 comes to a clumsy finish, he folds the hastily-taped garden up and puts it back in its box - an old chocolate tin under his bed, his name scribbled over hers in marker - and pretends he doesn't know.

It's easier when he pretends.

* * *

~~Hank hadn't known about Connor, at first.~~

~~He'd figured Connor was normal, real, lovable; he'd lived the perfect lie that Connor could only wish to uphold, loved him like his first father never seemed to, loved him like she never could. And then one day, he found out - and not through an uncomfortable encounter or coming-out, or a sleep-talk with his drowsy son, or a misplaced tool, but through her name.~~

~~Connor should have known, should have stopped him from saying it; he watched Hank's face scrunch up as he scanned Connor's desk, eyes landing on a schoolbook he'd forgotten to give back in, handwriting shaky with youth and corners softened with age - and then he'd asked, softly, with the softest hint of understanding in his voice: "Connor, who's Amanda?"~~

~~And Connor had forgotten how to breathe.~~

* * *

It isn't as if Hank's a stranger to these things - he's had friends like Connor, family like Connor, and has attended his fair share of parades and groups and meet-ups - but it's different, he realises, when it's someone so close, someone who depends on you as intimately as a child, albeit an adopted one. He wonders, distantly, what Cole would think of his little-big brother. 

Connor's dorm's door opens, suddenly, and he's looking out at Hank, eyes red with tears that he never quite wiped away; "I'm sorry, Hank," his voice is soft, "you must think me a freak."

Hank says nothing, but gestures for his son to come closer - and Connor complies, trudging over to him with a sluggishness only encountered in the darkness of the evening. His usual neat getup is replaced with something more casual and slouchy, big enough to hang off his frame, and his hair is tousled and curly and dripping with remnants of his earlier shower, lighting his face up with sad youth.

When Connor is close enough to touch, Hank does so, slowly - he knows how Connor gets with touching, sometimes - and pulls him closer, arm wrapped securely around his shoulders, Connor's knees bending to meet with the sitting man's embrace. "No son of mine is a freak," Hank mumbles, voice thick with emotion, "and you, Con, are definitely my son."

Connor cries a second time, that night, though he admittedly isn't too bothered about this one. Hank takes him home a month later.

* * *

He thinks it's stupid, really, what he gets upset over; his hair growing past his eyes, his hips looking too wide in his new uniform, the fact that no boys ever find him attractive.

Well, some boys, but only the straight ones - and not nice straight ones, either, but the real fuckboy kinds, who lean back in their chairs and snigger at him and say _"hey beautiful, wanna get a drink sometime?"_ , as if his nametag doesn't say "Detective _Connor_ Anderson", and as if the last thousand of their attempts hadn't been turned down with less-than-kind gestures.

Then one day, he's on his way out for lunch with Hank, a coffee in his hand, scanning through the latest investigation in his head; and suddenly a hand grasps his forearm, gentle and easy, loose enough that it's barely even touching him. He follows the warmly-toned skin up the arm and to the face, where a young man grins at him, mismatched eyes betraying his shyness, cheeks flushed a little redder with the cold.

"Hey, uh," he stumbles over his words, as if his tongue is stuck in his mouth, and yet still manages to sound utterly entrancing; "I know this is... weird, but I'm here to do sketches every few weeks, and you're kinda really cute, and I'm kind of really gay, so would it be even weirder than it already is if I asked you for your number...?"

Connor flushes redder than the painfully-pretty painter, and - finding his tongue is too dry to cooperate - digs a sharpie out of his pocket, quickly noting down his number on the kind man's arm, making sure to sign off with a charming little "Connor c:" that he hopes comes off as more cute than creepy. With nothing more than a nod and a quick mumble of goodbye, he's rushing towards Hank's car, cheeks stretched painfully in a grin, face flushed red.

* * *

 **_Unknown, 20:17_ **  
_hey, im hoping this is connor??_  
_its markus btw lol, you wrote your number on my arm :)_


End file.
